


Velocity

by pocketclocked



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Foggy, Demi-Matt, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, nothing actually gets done in the office
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 05:52:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4089397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketclocked/pseuds/pocketclocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moving forward takes time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Velocity

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I will give Karen all the attention in the world because she is a wonderful human.

Moving forward took time. Three weeks and a day, to be exact, before Foggy was hovering awkwardly in the main office after Karen had gone home. Since Fisk had been put away, he normally just bolted out the door whenever Karen left, which—well, Matt couldn't really blame him, but it hurt. 

The weeks had been a bit tense, with more than a few passive aggressive comments from Foggy about vigilantes and their morally grey agendas. Matt, for his part, had tried to keep his mouth shut, but his legendary temper made it difficult. They'd almost gotten into it a few times, when Karen wasn’t around to force them into polite civility. (They both agreed, unspoken, not to involve her any more than was necessary.) 

Matt tried hard not to push it, understood that Foggy would need time, and was willing to give him space. But he also hadn’t realized how badly he needed Foggy’s acceptance about the issue until he didn't have it. It made him frustrated and more than a little hotheaded, he was embarrassed to admit. 

(On the other hand, he'd been very productive as Daredevil. Matt was _not_ embarrassed to admit that it helped him vent, when it wasn’t serving as a constant reminder of how upset Foggy was with him.) 

Foggy sighed and moved into Matt’s doorway, jacket rasping as he shuffled from one foot to the other. Matt could hear him swallow nervously before he stumbled out, 

“I’ve been a dick, and I’m really sorry. Josie’s?” 

Matt didn't even bother to smother the relieved grin at that. “Me, too, and _yes_.” Damn dignity, the last three weeks had been torturous. When Foggy offered him his arm—maybe out of habit, but Matt suspected not—his heartbeat was strong and steady, and Matt's own heart flip-flopped when he moved next to him. He may have held on a little too tight, but Foggy was good enough not to say anything about it. 

They went to Josie's. It was awkward for three seconds, until Foggy picked up his color commentary on their fellow patrons. A few minutes later, Matt was trying not to choke on his drink, and Foggy's hand was warm and solid on his back. 

They were okay. 

Mostly okay, since Foggy still got huffy and grumbly and sulked in his office on days when Matt showed up with more bruises and/or cuts. And since Foggy _knew_ that Matt could hear him now, Matt was fairly convinced that the steady stream of profanity—which only Foggy could make sound _disappointed_ —was meant specifically for him. But on nights when Matt didn’t go on patrol, they went out to Josie’s for drinks, or stayed in with a movie and Chinese food. It felt like old times, except that Matt felt more relaxed than before, looser in his movements. 

Foggy still wasn’t his priest, but his acceptance of Matt—all of him—was a balm on Matt’s conscience. He thought he should be concerned about that, but wasn’t. 

- 

It was another week until Foggy started asking questions about, what he referred to as, the ‘Daredevil Thing’—“Capital D, capital T, Murdock, and I’m doing finger quotes.” 

“I can tell.” It was said with a grin, then a chuckle when Foggy smacked him lazily. 

They were back at Josie’s, just the two of them and a bottle of whiskey that was more empty than full, and at one point Foggy leaned in close and asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?” It was quiet, for Matt’s ears only, even though no one at Josie’s really payed them much attention. 

Matt laughed, swatting at his partner. “None. Trick question.” It felt like college again. He was swamped with the sounds and smells of Foggy, his watch ticking, the whisper of his long hair brushing against his shirt, the mild soap that he’d started using their freshman year—just for Matt—and had kept using after that. His heartbeat, which was strong and steady and almost— _almost_ , but not quite—overwhelmingly loud in Matt’s head. Whiskey when Foggy grinned, unabashed at being caught.

“How do you do that? And don’t give me that ‘world on fire’ stuff,” Foggy added, when Matt opened his mouth. “I refuse to believe you haven’t researched it _at length_.” He punctuated this statement with two firm taps on the bar.

And Matt had a pleasant buzz from the whiskey, combined with the fact that Foggy was _here_ and genuinely interested in what he had to say, so he told him as well as he could. The smells, sounds, textures; how he could ‘see’ better in the rain, maybe like sonar?; how he couldn’t tell what Foggy’s face looked like, but could guess what it was doing since he’s known Foggy so long. And Foggy was quiet, making curious noises every now and then, but not interrupting. When Matt finished, Foggy just said, a little reverently, “Amazing.” 

Matt’s throat went tight with emotion. He took a drink, swallowing it down. “Yeah.” 

- 

The next big problem became apparent about a week and a half later, when Matt woke up sweating and hard from a dream _about Foggy_. This was alarming for a number of reasons—one being that Matt was generally uninterested in sex, the other being that it was _Foggy_ , and if there was one thing that could truly fuck up the peace between them, it would be _extremely inconvenient_ sexual attraction. 

Matt wasn’t stupid. He remembered the way Foggy’s heartbeat had stuttered the first time they’d met. It had gone high and fluttery around Matt for the better part of their first year, until it hadn’t (inexplicably, and Matt realized now why he had been disappointed about that). Foggy’s bisexuality was no mystery, either, not that he ever really bothered to keep it secret. 

The problem was, excluding the one comment in college about Matt being good looking (and Matt’s own fumbling response that he was still kicking himself about), Foggy had never really hinted at being interested in more than friendship. He made jokes now and then about Matt’s appearance, but his heartbeat had been slow and steady since college. And, until now, Matt had been content with that. Foggy generally wanted sex, Matt didn’t. Besides, even if Foggy did still find him attractive, there was no guarantee that he wanted anything more. 

But it was _Foggy_ , a small part of him argued. Foggy, who accepted both Matthew Murdock _and_ the Devil of Hell's Kitchen. Foggy, who still offered him his arm when they walked together, who still narrated the daily sights of the city, despite the fact that Matt didn't necessarily _need_ either of those things (but wanted them anyway). Foggy, whose heartbeat could be heard from several blocks away when Matt concentrated, who perpetually smelled like vanilla from the lattes that he drank too often. 

Matt knew he was in trouble. 

He lay awake for a while longer, willing himself to relax and go back to sleep. He ran over the case they were working on in his head, recited meditation techniques. Hell’s Kitchen was just waking up—or, for some, finally going to bed—when he gave up and wrapped a hand around himself with a quiet moan. 

The fact that he came hard and fast to the thought of Foggy, warm and soft and making _completely obscene_ noises, was not remotely comforting. 

He got up immediately afterward to throw his sheets in the wash, then stopped at confession before going to work. Like that would help. 

- 

“It feels like _literal_ Hell's Kitchen,” Foggy moaned, discarding his jacket and rolling up his sleeves. Matt mumbled something noncommittal in response, tugging at his tie. He could feel a bead of sweat rolling down his back with agonizing slowness, and it was making him irritable. 

Their client list was small enough that bills were still tight and central air out of the question, so their office usually became unbearable around midmorning in the summer months. When there were no clients and little work to be done, they clustered in the meeting room—the only room they could justify putting a window AC unit into after Karen had pointed out that they should at least make the _clients_ comfortable. 

Karen had just stepped out to get them all lunch, and had taken with her any real productivity. Foggy had stopped getting anything done a half hour ago, and Matt was zoning in and out, too distracted by the heat to focus on the report he should have been reading. Eventually, Foggy got up to fiddle with the AC, and they both sighed with relief as cool air began filtering back in. 

A few minutes later, Matt heard the twang of a rubber band, felt the rush of air next to his ear. He sighed again. “Really, Foggy?” 

His only response was a muttered, “Damn, I missed.” There was another snap, and Matt leaned lazily to one side to avoid a second rubber band. “Oh, c’mon, Matt!” 

“If I can dodge bullets, you think I can’t dodge rubber bands?” Foggy's heartbeat shuddered with fear, and Matt bit down on the guilt that bloomed in his gut. _Stupid_. 

He snatched up one of the pens from the table, grinning. Foggy snorted, pulse evening back out. 

“Oh please, like you can actually—ow, what the _hell_ , Murdock!” He yelped, clutching his forehead where the pen had struck him, dead-on. And because Matt was apparently an _immature child_ when it came to Foggy—he blamed it on the heat—he grinned even more and threw another one. 

Foggy got a lucky shot in with a highlighter before Matt's fingers closed around molded plastic—one of Foggy's little dinosaurs, normally lined up on his desk. Foggy must have been playing with them, which, huh. 

It was a miracle Karen put up with them and their pitiful work ethics. 

“Not my dinosaurs!” 

This inspired a rather spirited (yet ineffective) retaliation, which still resulted mostly with Foggy getting hit and Matt dodging, much to the former’s dismay. Foggy was just hefting up something large—one of their old textbooks—when Matt held up one hand, cocking his head to one side. 

Matt could hear Karen coming up the stairs, knew Foggy could hear her when she offered a polite hello to the secretary in the office down the hall. Foggy’s arm cocked back, strained under the weight of the book. 

“Foggy-“ Matt started, warning in his voice. He could hear Foggy’s grin, the soft sound of his lips pulling back over teeth. It made the words catch in his throat. 

"Payback's a bitch, Murdock.” 

Karen walked in just in time to see Matt take a book to the face. 

“ _Franklin Patrick Nelson_ , _what the hell!_ ” 

Amidst her shouted lecture on what was _clearly_ not office-appropriate, Foggy tried—and failed—to stifle his laughter. Finally he seemed to give up altogether, standing and moving into their kitchenette so that he could howl freely about "throwing the book at them." He made up for it, though, when he came back with an icepack wrapped in a tea towel, which he handed to Matt with only a little snickering. 

“I thought you’d dodge, at least a little bit,” he whispered when Karen strode—rather righteously—back to her desk, having declared them both idiots. Gently, he removed Matt's glasses and set them on the table. 

Wincing as he braced the icepack against his forehead, Matt offered a sheepish smile. “Couldn’t risk it.” 

“Paranoid dork,” Foggy murmured. When Matt moved the icepack a bit, Foggy hissed sympathetically, smoothing back Matt's hair from the bump that was forming. “Sorry, buddy. Looks like it might actually bruise...” His hand was soft, cool from the icepack, and Matt didn't stop to think before he reached up to wrap a hand around his wrist. 

He felt Foggy's pulse stutter under his hand, heard him inhale sharply. It was both surprising and pleasing to know that he could still get this kind of reaction. Smugly, he remembered when just walking into the room was enough to get Foggy's heart rate up. 

Against his better judgment— _the heat, it was the heat_ —he ran his thumb over Foggy's pulse. 

Foggy shuddered, heartbeat spiking, then sighed. “ _Matt_ —“ 

“Your salads are going to wilt!” Karen called out from the main area, and Foggy jerked, hand hanging in midair like he'd been reaching for him. Matt was abruptly torn between propriety and desire, an unfamiliar and thoroughly unpleasant feeling. 

Sighing, he let go. Then he smiled, put his glasses back on, and tried not to sound too disappointed when he asked, “Pass me mine, please?” 

- 

Foggy listened to music a lot in the office; usually it was with headphones, though Matt could still hear it. He was able to tune most of it out, not that he really minded in the first place. In fact, the only time it got distracting was when Foggy was _singing along_. 

Since he’d figured out about Matt’s super-hearing, he sometimes did it just to mess with him. Once, during a meeting with a client, he’d left Rick Astley’s “Never Gonna Give You Up” playing in his office. It was low enough that only Matt could hear it, and poor Karen had never been able to figure out why he’d been so distracted (or why Foggy had occasionally burst into little fits of laughter). 

Today, though, it didn’t seem intentional. For one thing, Foggy’s singing seemed absentminded, occasionally trailing off into humming. And for another— 

“— _and let me get your head_ _on the conjugal bed_ —“ 

Matt felt his face heating up. Definitely not Rick Astley, and probably not something Foggy would consciously sing along to at work. Neither one had brought up the whole… wrist-touching thing that had happened earlier in the week. Foggy was acting like nothing had happened, even if his heart rate occasionally shot up when Matt was in the room. Matt was exercising what he believed to be a saint-like (okay, maybe not that much, but _close_ ) amount of patience, waiting to see what Foggy would do. 

Apparently, his plan was to, _completely unknowingly_ , torture Matt through highly suggestive song lyrics. 

Dragging his attention back to his notes, Matt pushed the idea from his mind. They had a meeting with their client and the prosecution tomorrow, and both he and Foggy were determined to settle out of court. He needed to be focusing on the case, not on the (admittedly very nice) sound of Foggy’s voice. 

He made it about twenty seconds, until Foggy crooned (softly, and a little off-key), “ _Ohh, you handsome devil_.” 

Standing, he made his way across the main office. Looking up from her filing, Karen made a little questioning noise which Matt waved off, smiling benignly. Foggy was still humming when he moved into the doorway, only noticing Matt once he groped his way to Foggy’s desk. 

"Matt? What's up?" He’d pulled out one of the earbuds, but the song was still playing, and Matt kept _imagining_ — 

“Foggy.” It was embarrassing how choked and desperate his voice sounded, but it couldn't be helped. He just hoped Karen wasn’t listening in. “I need— can you please turn your music off?” He grimaced. “Or down? A lot?” 

“Music…? Oh. — _Oh_.” Foggy's voice went quiet and soft, and Matt couldn't see his face but was pretty sure he was smiling, maybe a little shy. “Um. Sure. Sorry about that.” There was a bright flare from his blush. 

Matt cleared his throat again, feeling like an idiot. “Thanks. Not a problem.” He turned back to his office, but Foggy’s hushed laughter followed him even after he had sat back down. 

He was so, so ruined. 

- 

The case was settled out of court, so Foggy invited everyone to his apartment for dinner to celebrate. Matt hadn't realized that it could be somewhat problematic until he got to Foggy's place that night. As soon as he opened the door, his senses were immediately overwhelmed with _Foggy_ and _home_. Foggy’s cooking skills hadn’t improved much since college, so Matt could smell pasta with marinara, garlic, red wine. There was something sweeter—apple cobbler from Foggy’s favorite bakery. 

Layered under everything were familiar scents like Karen’s perfume (light, she’d switched for Matt) and Foggy’s mild soap, the smell of his shampoo (cocoa butter?). There were other things, things he’d forgotten about since they’d roomed together in college, and Matt bit at his lip and tried not to think about how distracting those were now. 

“Matty!” Foggy's voice called out from the kitchen, warm and pleased. “I trust you didn't fall into any manholes on the way over?” Light, teasing. Matt smiled. 

“Not tonight, no.” Karen was already bustling over, taking his coat and hanging it up. She squeezed his shoulder, gentle and fond, then led him over to the table. 

Between the three of them, things were easy and relaxed. Foggy was a bright spot in the room, spinning the sordid details of the case for Karen, who was starting to lose that haunted edge that she'd had for a while. Matt pushed the extra sensations to the back of his mind, focusing on the warm feeling that was blooming in his chest as the night wore on. (This was Matt wanted, everyone safe and happy and together, and it was _perfect_.) 

Dinner was good, and Karen made a pleased noise when Foggy mentioned dessert, offering to dish it out to everyone. Foggy began collecting the dinner dishes, and maybe it was the wine, but Matt scrambled to help him. Laughing, Foggy told him to relax, and it was definitely more than the wine that made Matt stand up, saying, “No, no it's fine.” 

He followed Foggy into the kitchen, maybe a little closer than necessary. Foggy set the dishes on the counter, turning and almost bumping into Matt. He made a small, surprised noise, heart thumping. “Matty, what's up, are you—“ 

And Matt kissed him because he was so close and the warmth in his chest had spread to his toes and was making him feel very light. Foggy tasted like garlic and red wine, and he sort of sighed against him, hands coming up to rest on Matt's arms. Matt hummed, pleased, and moved his hands to Foggy's hips, crowded him up against the counter. 

“ _Matt_ ,” Foggy breathed when they broke off, and Matt shuddered, impossibly warm and too buzzed for the amount of alcohol he'd had. He licked his lips, and Foggy sucked in a breath. 

“Foggy, I—“ 

“Foggy, do you have vanilla ice cream?” Karen's voice was close, not quite in the kitchen, but almost, and Matt jerked away. He heard Foggy's sharp intake of breath. 

“Um. Ice cream. Yes.” He moved toward the freezer just as Karen walked in, and Matt, maddeningly, couldn't see if they shared a look. Instead, he smiled and made his way back to the table. Karen made a questioning noise, but Foggy shushed her, making a swiping motion. 

When they returned to the table, Karen seemed smug as she dished out dessert. Foggy's heart was still racing, which Matt found extremely gratifying. He stomped down on the feeling and took a bite of the cobbler. 

Karen hummed. “It's amazing. You made this?” She sounded suspicious, and rightly so. Foggy laughed, heart still fluttering. 

“No way. Got it from the bakery around the corner.” He paused, and his voice was a little uncertain. “What do you think, Matt?” 

“Delicious.” He did not mean the cobbler, though it _was_ good. Foggy must have picked up on it, because his heart thudded in his chest. His smile softened, and he grabbed his wineglass, raising it a bit. “To Page, Nelson, and Murdock.” 

Karen's laughed, clinking her glass gently against his. “Page, Nelson, and Murdock.” 

“Avocados at law.” Foggy's voice was a little soft, but affectionate, and his glass chimed in with the rest of them. 

_Perfect_.

- 

There was a brief internal struggle when it came time to leave. While Matt was perfectly content to find some excuse to stay behind and finish what he'd started in the kitchen, he could practically _feel_ Foggy's anxiety buzzing around him like a cloud. It was a little distressing, considering he'd seemed to have enjoyed Matt kissing him, but Matt didn't want to push. 

He followed Karen to the door and offered to walk her home, much to her delight and amusement. Foggy trailed after them, helping Karen slip into her coat. 

“Be careful on your way home.” And, directed at Matt, “Don't make any detours.” His heartbeat was strong and steady, not upset, Matt realized. Just anxious. 

He smiled. “I won't.” 

Foggy's sigh of relief was quiet, but Matt picked up on it anyway. His smile widened, and he grabbed his cane as Karen opened the door. 

“Goodnight,” Foggy called to her. Then, “Uh. Goodnight, Matty.” There was the quick, soft press of lips on his cheek, then he was being ushered out the door. 

Huh. 

If Karen noticed him grinning like an idiot while they were walking, she was very gracious and didn't mention it. She did keep making happy little noises, though. 

- 

When he got home, the smell of vanilla ice cream and apple cobbler was still hanging on his clothes. He stripped out of them before bed, leaving them in the bathroom. 

It didn’t help. He woke up in the early hours of the morning from a dream that had him sighing out Foggy’s name like a prayer.

- 

He woke the next two nights, as well, rubbing against silk sheets and thinking of Foggy's skin. The smell of vanilla and apples was everywhere, taunting him, and he couldn't stop thinking about the way Foggy said his name, warm and fond and a little breathy— 

Foggy, who was still acting normal at the office, with the exception that his touches sometimes lingered a little longer than necessary. It was driving Matt crazy. 

The second night, he gave up and threw on the costume. Patience was a virtue, but Matt had determined a while ago that he was no saint. It was raining out, finally cool enough that going on patrol wasn't unbearable. Crime rates were down, though it was Hell's Kitchen, and Matt was sure he could find a few law-breaking skulls to crack together. 

He wasn't disappointed. 

“Oh, _hell_ , man—“ 

Matt grinned, and it was sharp and wicked and nothing like the kinds of grins that he gave Foggy. Instead of bothering him, the thought made something in his gut twinge. What would Foggy think about that look? 

Cracking his knuckles, he made his way into the alley. 

“Gentlemen. The weather's a bit poor for armed robbery, don't you think?” 

- 

Inevitably, he ended up at Foggy's, because his self-control was thoroughly shredded. The suit—while excellent at deflecting knives—was not remotely waterproof, and Matt was soaked to the bone. He figured he should find himself a little pathetic, crouched on Foggy's fire escape and listening to the soft sounds of him getting ready for bed. 

He was also tired of waiting and dancing around whatever this— _thing_ was. Rapping twice on the window, he heard Foggy's yelp and the shift of something heavy and wooden. He waited until Foggy unlatched the window, then said, “Hey, Foggy.” 

“Holy God, _Matt_?“ 

Matt's heart thudded painfully. Right, because normal people didn't show up at people's windows in the middle of the night wearing a mask. _Murdock, you idiot_. He struggled with the clasp, slipping the mask off and hoping he didn't look totally desperate. 

“That thing is even dorkier-looking up close.” Foggy snorted, after another moment. Matt let out the breath he'd been holding, smiling sheepishly. 

“Is that a baseball bat?” He gestured to the item in Foggy's hand. It was most definitely a baseball bat. Foggy blushed. 

“Just a precaution.” He paused, and Matt thought he was listening to the rain. “Want to come in?” 

He shouldn't, not when he was buzzing with adrenaline and affection. He was already pushing his luck. “Sure.” 

Foggy moved into the bedroom to grab Matt some sweatpants and a shirt—“Since you're soaked and I like my couch, thanks.” Matt stood very still and tried not to drip too much, changing gratefully once he got the clothes. (Except that they smelled very much like Foggy and that was not good for Matt's mental health.) 

Foggy made them both tea, which neither of them touched once they'd settled on the couch next to each other. Matt was hypersensitive to the brush of Foggy's leg against his own, and it made him a little jumpy. 

“Um, about the other night,” Foggy started, voice low. Matt hummed, smiling. 

“It was nice.” He pressed his leg closer, grounding himself on the sensation of cloth pressed between their skin. 

“Yeah.” Foggy sounded choked, and his fingers tangled in with Matt's. “Really nice.” 

“I'd really like to kiss you again,” Matt murmured, leaning over. “If that's okay.” 

“Yeah? I mean,” Foggy cleared his throat. “Yeah. _Yes_.” 

The taste of Foggy's toothpaste was almost overwhelming, but so was the soft press of his lips, and the noise he made when Matt licked into his mouth, pressing in close. It was amazing, and Matt felt something settle under his skin, finally able to relax. Shifting so that he could straddle Foggy’s hips, he sighed and felt Foggy shudder under him. 

Except—Foggy made a pained noise, hand pressed against Matt's chest. “Wait, Matt.” Obediently, Matt did, baffled, and it must have showed up on his face because— 

“You-You don't like sex,” Foggy blurted out. 

Matt froze, mind blanking. “What?” 

“You told me, back in college, you said you didn't ever feel attracted to anyone like that—“ Foggy babbled, heart hammering in his chest. “You—oh God, this isn't guilt, is it? Because I could totally see you being all heroic and self-sacrificing, even about something like this.” 

Matt had to take a moment to process that, then frowned. “What? No- _God_ , no. No, it's just.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I never was, attracted to anyone, I mean. It’s. Hard to explain.” 

“Please try.” There was a note of exasperation in Foggy’s voice, but the hand that wasn’t still tangled up in Matt’s was resting warm on Matt’s thigh. It was making him smile. 

“I love you.” 

Well. That wasn’t exactly what he’d planned to say. He tensed, listening to Foggy’s heart pound—impossibly—faster. It sounded like it was trying to break out of his chest. 

“Oh?” His voice was very quiet, barely more than a whisper. Matt winced. 

“Uh. Yeah.” He shrugged, turning his face away so Foggy couldn’t see that it was covered in a blush. “Pretty much since law school.” Swallowing, he turned back, and Foggy’s silhouette was impossibly bright. Warm. “And I didn’t realize it was more than—“ He swallowed again, past the lump that was forming in his throat. “That I _wanted_ you, I mean. Until recently.” Desperately, he wished that he could just _see_ for a second, just to see what Foggy’s expression was. His fingers twitched, wanting to run over the planes of his face. 

“Wanted me?” Foggy breathed, voice soft. His fingers were tracing a pattern on Matt’s thigh. Matt shuddered. 

“Yeah.” There was a pause, which was more than a little agonizing. He asked, in a very small voice, “Is that okay?” 

“So very okay, _oh my God_ , Matt.” Foggy leaned up, one hand cupping Matt’s neck, the other tangling in his hair as he pressed their lips together again. “I love you, too, Murdock. Pretty much since I met you.” 

Then Matt was pushing Foggy into the couch, groaning into the kiss and giving in to run one hand over Foggy’s face, the other moving to slip under his shirt. “Foggy, I need—I _want_ —“ he murmured against his throat. 

Foggy laughed, mouth open under Matt’s fingers. “Pushy.” His hands were nudging at the waistband of Matt’s borrowed sweatpants. “I like it.” 

- 

Matt had had sex before, but it was nothing like sex with Foggy. 

It was so much better than his dreams. Foggy really did make obscene noises, just like Matt imagined, but he also _never shut up_. Matt hadn't realized how _hot_ it was when Foggy narrated everything Matt was doing, how he was making him feel, but _good Lord_. Foggy had a sinfully filthy mouth, and Matt was already addicted to it. 

He wasn't quite sure he could take that one to confession. 

“Oh my God, Matty,” Foggy sighed as Matt slipped a third finger into him. “I can feel you inside me, stretching me out, God Matt, I need _more_ — _Jesus_!” He cried out when Matt’s fingers twisted, pressing in deep. 

“Blasphemous,” Matt murmured, teeth dragging over Foggy’s hip and making him jerk and cry out again. 

Foggy stopped talking pretty soon after that, mostly reduced to moans and gasps and the occasional sob when Matt wasn’t moving fast enough. According to Foggy, Matt was very cruel during sex. 

He flashed that wicked smile, and delighted in the way it made Foggy’s heart race. Devil, indeed. 

Afterward, Matt slept better than he had in a month. It might have had something to do with the fact that he curled around Foggy like a cat, pressed close despite the heat. He was awoken in the morning by the wonderful sensation of Foggy’s hand wrapped around his cock, which was soon replaced by his mouth. They both discovered rather quickly that it didn’t take a lot to make Matt beg, and that it was very effective at getting him what he wanted. 

- 

“I don’t want to go to work,” Foggy muttered sometime later, still sprawled on the bed. Matt was stretched out and wobbly beside him, and debating whether he should get up and shower or return the favor from earlier. He wasn’t certain he couldn’t do both, at the same time. 

“We don’t have to,” he pointed out. “There’s nothing pressing, except for paperwork. We can do that here.” 

Foggy snorted. "Yeah, like we’d be able to get anything done.” That made Matt smile, probably a little dopily, and warmth pool in his belly. Rolling over, he snatched at Foggy’s hip. He was pretty sure he could get _him_ to beg, too. 

They were definitely going to be late. Afterward, Foggy gave up and called Karen. 

“Right, not feeling well,” she drawled. A little too sharp, Karen Page. Matt could practically _hear_ her smirk. “Tell Matt I hope he feels better, too.” 

Foggy startled, yelping. “Wh-What? What are you talking about?” Karen laughed. 

“You called me on _his phone_ , you dork.” Matt could feel Foggy staring at him, probably horrified, but he just busted up. Foggy smacked at him. “Also, you’re both incredibly obvious.” 

“Oops?” 

There was a sigh, but it didn't sound angry. “Fine, take the day off. I'm changing the sign to say 'Law Offices of Karen Page,' though, since I'm the only one working around here. And I want a raise.” 

Foggy began sputtering something about ‘company resources,’ but Matt plucked the phone out of his hand and murmured, “We’ll discuss the details of your promotion tomorrow.” 

“Right,” Karen huffed. Then, soft and affectionate. “I love you idiots.” 

Matt grinned. “You, too. Don’t worry, we’ll get some work done.” He was pretty sure Foggy was rolling his eyes, so he waved him off. “Seriously.” 

“We should probably get out of bed first,” Foggy said, too loudly. Karen coughed. 

“I so didn’t need to know that. Goodbye.” She hung up. Matt flung his phone off to the side, stretching. Foggy was getting up and dragging on pants, and judging by his pulse, enjoying the view. 

“What did she say?” 

“That you should make me breakfast.” Matt put on his extra charming smile, pleased by the way Foggy’s heart sped up. Then he dodged the pants that were thrown at him, laughing. 

It was good. It was _perfect_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Foggy makes a bunch of playlists for work just to screw with Matt. Karen catches onto it eventually, probably whenever she finds out about Matt’s nightlife. (Then she does it, too).
> 
> The scene where they're being Real Adults and throwing things at the office was inspired by this tumblr post: http://the-high-school.tumblr.com/post/118811018638/headcanon-that-foggy-is-always-throwing-things-at which made me cackle like an idiot.


End file.
